


Obligate

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was ever a situation that called for profanity, this would be it. John sags against the couch. "God."</p><p>"Not quite," Harold says, "but close enough for government work."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obligate

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Morin and to talking2thesky for looking this over <3333

John has always been a man of action. Words work okay for him, when he needs them to, but they're another layer of manipulation. Never taken at face value.

He needs this to be taken at face value, so when he realizes what has been nagging at the corner of his mind for months, he bends down to where Harold's sitting and kisses him.

Even as he does, the pieces come slotting into place in his mind, observations of Harold looking a little too long, breathing a little too rapidly. This isn't a certainty, nothing is, but it's as close as it gets. Harold will kiss him back. Harold will grip the back of his neck and move John to his knees - not forcing him, Harold wouldn't do that, and at any rate there wouldn't be a need. John would be eager enough to get there.

He moves back a fraction to gauge Harold's response.

Harold blinks at him twice. He clears his throat, says, "I see," and turns back to the computer screen, typing with newfound determination. John moves a little closer, unsure, then reels back at a tiny, decisive shake of Harold's head.

"I'm afraid I'll be busy tonight," Harold says as John retreats, slinking like a kicked dog. "Feel free to rest, Mr. Reese."

"Yeah." John swallows. "I'll do that."

~~

It's hardly the first time he's been disappointed. John's determined to be an adult about this. 

It would help if Finch did the same. Instead, every time John offers dinner, or coffee, or going out to catch a show or stretch their legs, Harold says, "I'm afraid I'm very busy," eyes never moving away from the screen. John doesn't think Finch has looked him in the eyes once since he made his attempt.

Being rejected is painful enough once. Going through it over and over is too much for John. After his fifth or six offer of lunch is rejected, he stands up straight. "Call me if there's a number," he tosses over his shoulder on the way out.

"Of course," Finch says. Still not looking away from his screen.

~~

The number that comes up is a doctor. 

"A neurosurgeon, in fact," Finch says. He moves stiffly getting up from the desk, joints creaking audibly. John wishes he'd have made him at least get up for yoga or something. Finch hasn't been sleeping, either, John can tell by the minute tremors in his hands. "I will see her myself, as my presence in her clinic would draw little notice." He gestures at his body, self-deprecating.

John can't help a snide little, "Oh, I could go, Harold. I'd hate you to stop whatever you've been doing."

To his surprise, Finch gives him a tiny, sweet smile. "All but done." He limps his way out. 

~~

John sits at a coffee shop outside the clinic, earpiece firmly in place. Harold's been in there for a while, and he's wondering whether he should come in and take a closer look when his phone buzzes.

It's a text from an unlisted number, saying, COME IN.

John doesn't run, conscious of all the ways walking would get him inside quicker in the overall accounting. He leaves money on the table, smiles at his server, and moves as fast as he can without drawing undue attention.

~~

The neurosurgeon's in her forties, her hair in tidy cap of curls. Her face would be pretty if it weren't distorted with terror.

That probably has something to do with the gun John is aiming at her. 

"Put it down, John," Harold says. He's entangled in a mess of cables, looking like a lab experiment, something out of a mad scientist comic book. "I'm perfectly all right, and if you cease threatening poor Dr. Mitchell, she will remove the electrodes."

Reluctantly, John holsters his weapon. 

For all her evident fear, Dr. Mitchell's hands are steady. It's less than a minute before Harold is free. He takes her hand, speaking in a low voice - apologizing for John, probably. John would be angrier about this if he didn't have a niggling hunch that the apology is justified.

"So that's done," Harold says, turning back to John. "I'm free as the proverbial bird, so to speak." He's smiling at John again, gentle, and John has no idea how to react to any of this.

"Call me when you need me," he says, abrupt.

Harold's smile dims. "Actually," he says, "I would very much appreciate your observations on some matters, if you would accompany me."

John does. What choice does he have?

~~

"Jenny," the guy on the screen says. "Don't make me do this, Jenny." His voice cracks, but the gun in his hands is steady.

Tension thrums in John's muscle, eager to _act_. "When is this from?"

"It's happening right now," Harold says, placid. He rests a hand on John's thigh when John would leap to his feet, and the warmth of it burns through John's clothes like a brand. "Please sit down, John. It's all right."

"Not for Jenny, it's not," John says, voice tight.

On the screen, the guy's phone rings. He wavers, then aims the gun again. Jenny's gone limp in his grasp, unmoving, tears streaming silently down her face. The phone keeps ringing.

The ringing stops. The guy breathes in, bracing himself.

"Peter?" The voice is coming from the phone, tinny and bewildered. "Peter, is everything all right?"

The guy - Peter - freezes. "Ma?"

"Peter, baby, what are you doing? Is this that nice girl from the pharmacy?"

Peter's shaking now. "She tricked me, Ma."

"You're no murderer, Peter." The tinny voice goes wobbly. "That's not how I raised you. Come home, baby, tell me what happened."

Peter's glance flicks from Jenny to his pocket, guilt evident on his face. Then he drops his hands, the gun clattering to the floor, thankfully not shooting anyone. Jenny takes one last look at him and runs. 

Once she's well away, and Peter is sitting on the floor, sobbing into the phone, Harold turns off the display. "Only a test run," he says, "but a promising one, I think."

John turns his eyes on him. "That was a number."

"Yes." 

"Did you put his mother up to this?"

"I did not." Harold looks oddly relaxed, sitting back against the couch, as close to slouching as he can get. 

John's having trouble breathing. "Harold," he says, with deliberation, "what the _fuck_ just happened?"

Harold doesn't reprimand his language choice. "The Machine just handled her first independent case," he says.

That explains the lack of criticism, at least. If there was ever a situation that called for profanity, this would be it. John sags against the couch. "God."

"Not quite," Harold says, "but close enough for government work."

~~

"So that's what you've been working on," John says, some time and a stiff drink later. He avoids alcohol usually, but this time Harold offered, and John accepted with gratitude. "Making the Machine autonomous."

"Oh, hardly," Harold says. "I had all of those routines prepared for ages. Have some water, John, you should keep hydrated."

John stares at him, more incredulous that Harold's admitting this than he is of the information itself. "So what _were_ you working on?" Hopefully whatever evasion Harold attempts next will give him some clue.

But Harold says, "The Machine has been capable of operating independently for a long time. What it had lacked so far was, hm, call it the capability to make its own judgement."

John flashes back on Harold in the neurosurgeon's office, and again, the pieces come tumbling together. "You gave it a conscience. That's what Mitchell did, she scanned your, what, sense of ethics?"

Of course. Who better than Harold, to teach the Machine right from wrong?

"Almost." Harold's voice is unbearably gentle. "In a way, the Machine was already more moral than you or I would ever be."

John snorts. "Innocence and morality aren't the same thing. Never choosing wrong doesn't mean much when you've never made any choices yourself."

The smile Harold gives him feels like a reward. John wishes it didn't. "I concede the point. I'll say instead, then, that morality doesn't have much meaning in what we do." He holds up a hand at John's raised eyebrows. "No, think about it. Look at humanity as a set of needs, often in conflict. Actions we think about as immoral often mean that a lesser need is satisfied at the expense of greater ones - greed instead of security, most often. It would be easy to call greed evil. But wanting more than we have is also the reason people make works of art and technological advancement."

"I get it," John says tightly. "There's no morality, only the Machine."

Harold looks at him curiously. "In a way, but I suspect I don't mean this the way you intended. Again, think of needs. In the case we just viewed, Jenny needed to have her physical autonomy and well being. Peter needed to be loved. Both needs were valid, if the actions Peter took to fulfill his were not."

This is starting to give John a headache. "Where does the Machine come into this?"

Abruptly, Harold stands up, pacing awkwardly around the room. John's eyes track him as he goes. "When I was younger, I used to think of people - no, I'm explaining it wrong. I used to think social interactions were an intricate, fine implementation of virtual reality. We never really react with the person in front of us, you see." Harold takes off his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief. His naked eyes blink at John. "We react with our own expectations of who they are, leavened to various degrees with the information we have." He puts his glasses back on, and resumes pacing.

"A human being is an unbearably large amount of data. We cannot even say we fully know ourselves. I surely had no idea that I wanted you until you presented me with the fact of it."

John doesn't intend to gasp, but he can't help it. He feels like he was punched in the stomach.

Harold keeps pacing as though he hasn't just dropped a bombshell. "If you consider each human being as a set of needs, all equally worthy of compassion if not of fulfillment, the problem becomes vastly more simple in theory. In practice, of course, the matter is much more complicated, since no human being has the ability to hold all these conflicting needs in their mind at the same time. If you attempt to distribute the problem between multiple people, those needs become dry facts, immaterial before the needs of one's own and one's loved ones."

Out of all the questions buzzing through John's head, what makes it through is a statement. "But the Machine can do it."

"It can. It can consider almost infinite possibilities, and come up with the most satisfying solution for everyone involved. It is not constrained by the tribal loyalties with which we concern ourselves, or," Harold's gaze lingers on John's face, "unequal affection. The Machine is capable, now, of loving every single living human with exactly equal ferocity, and it will be dedicated to satisfying all their needs with an amount of compassion that I personally find terrifying."

John aches to touch him. He feels like he's been welded to the couch, unable to get up, unable even to reach for Harold. "So the Machine asked me to come over, so it could read from your brain what love looks like." Saying the words makes him feel physically sick. If Harold calmly explains to him that he got it wrong _one more time_ \--

"Exactly." Harold sits back next to him, covering John's hand with his. The touch is dry and warm, incongruously familiar, like walking into a city he's never visited and realizing home was there all along. "I would have preferred a more parental mode of love, but I had to make do with what was at hand, and I trust complete devotion and admiration won't be completely unsuitable for the task."

"Harold," John says, voice thick.

"John." Harold touches his face, so gentle John wants to flinch from it on principle. He presses his lips against John's, a brief, dry kiss that makes John hurt with how much more he needs. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you waited."

All those questions John had earlier come tumbling into one another, but he can't think, can't do anything but reach for Harold with trembling hands, undoing his buttons one after another. He pushes Harold's jacket and vest off and slides to the floor, to his knees, easier there than facing the intensity of Harold's regard.

"I will do anything with you that you desire," Harold says, a promise, a gentle threat. "If you won't tell me what that is, I will do my best to find out. And my best, John, is rather a lot."

"Big words." John's voice comes out raspy. His eyes are half shut. He undoes Harold's fly, sliding his cock out through the slit in his boxers. "How about I just do this for a start." He takes Harold in his mouth.

"That," Harold says, strangled, a moment later, "is also perfectly acceptable."

John smiles and hums around Harold's cock: _Glad you approve_. Harold demonstrates this approval further by closing his eyes and putting his hand on the back of John's head. Guiding, never pushing. Perhaps John could teach him to be rougher: Harold did say _anything_.

He shoves his free hand down his own pants, just to relieve the pressure a little bit, and Harold says, "Don't."

John stills.

"Or rather, wait," Harold amends. He's looking at John now, his gaze avid and very warm. "I would very much enjoy watching you--" His lips twitch as John's grasp tightens, involuntarily, and he bucks and clenches and comes, just like that. "--Do exactly that," Harold finishes. His fingers spasm a tiny bit against John's scalp, and John yields to the pressure, taking Harold down his throat with what must be an insufferably satisfied expression on his face.

~~

Harold bullies them to bed afterwards. Such as it is. John stretches on the air mattress, making Harold grumble even though John's careful not to knock him off. "We need a bigger bed," John says.

"We could do this someplace more civilized next time." Harold gives John a half-hearted glare. "I was going to suggest that we go, in fact, before this escalated."

John does not find it in himself to be even a little bit repentant. "You should have known better."

"True." Harold sags back. "I suppose you have a point about the bed, as well."

The satisfaction of being right fills John with a warm glow. It makes him reckless. "So you did want me all along."

"Also true." Harold's fingers pet John's hair. "I couldn't, however, receive your offer in good conscience, as your employer and benefactor."

Instead of asking, John lets his mind whir. After he made his proposition, Harold spent every waking moment and many moments when he should have been sleeping working on the last steps to making the Machine work independently of them.

"We're not entirely superfluous," Harold says, reading John's mind. "There will be places the Machine can't reach, things she can't do. When we act henceforth, however, we will do it at the Machine's discretion. Not mine."

In a fit of glee, John rolls them over, pinning Harold down to the mattress. He kisses Harold's face over and over.

Harold squawks. "John, this is quite uncalled for." He's smiling, however, helpless under the onslaught.

"You're not the boss of me," John drawls, and proceeds to take extravagant advantage of that fact.


End file.
